John Biscello

Love,

as a true bloom

and pulsing grist,

and not just mutiny,

opiate in its seize

and grip,

should, at day’s end,

allow you to breathe

easier,

lungs rooming with heart,

space,

carved out of ceaseless flow,

respiring toward growth,

contrary to the shopworn opinion

and impossible mania

of love, the pipe fiend

and drug fix,

love, the eyeless valentine, doped,

which trades in

or constricts

the slowest

deepest

seasons of breathing

for the smallest hours

of concert

and trepass.